A Little Black Book
by allthoselittlemusings
Summary: You know why you go to the morgue. It's less because you have to and more because you're slowly coming apart. F/F, Stella/Reed. M for language. Stella's sad because she's minus her journal, Reed's accommodating because she's Reed. Read/Review. Be ruthless if you want.
1. Chapter 1

_For Fuck's Sake, Stella. _

You're cursing yourself again. Why? Because you've been without your journal for five fucking minutes and already you've near-doubled the amount of internal monologues you have. Internal - save for that sickening soliloquy you accidentally gave to Burns. The one that made every muscle in your jaw twitch with the effort of not giving in to emotion.

"_Oh but modern life is such an unholy mix of… voyeurism and exhibitionism" _

You have no doubt that that line would have been scrawled at the top of the next page of that _sodding _book. That sodding book which was now sitting downstairs in a plastic evidence bag.

_Oh Stella, don't take it out on the book. You left it lying around for Spector to see. _

It's easy to be mad at the book though, like it was a person. A person who had spilled all your deepest, darkest secrets. It was easier to be mad at the book than admit what you were really feeling - a miserable mix of anguish and loneliness. That book was kind of like your friend. The friend of a child who didn't play well with others and relied on their favourite stuffed toy instead. It was the Wilson to your manic Tom Hanks.

_Great. Now you're comparing yourself to a mad man on a desert island. For fuck's sake, Stella._

You know why you go to the morgue. It's less because you have to and more because you're slowly coming apart. Although, you do have to, because Spector's read every page of that _fucking _journal and he knows exactly who the leather-clad woman riding into a crime scene on a Ducati is. He knows exactly how intimate your dream was that night, knows exactly how your body responded. That puts Reed in danger, and that scares you too much to say out loud.

She's burning the midnight oil. Scrubs. Low-ponytail. Still immaculate. You know it would be more than a little odd to just tell her off-the-cuff and so you make up some bullshit about needing to know more about the dead girl in the woods. You don't. The toxicology reports can't help you right now. You stay though, while she finishes work, because fuck - everything Reed does makes you feel warm and fuzzy and _safe_, right down to tapping away on her keyboard while you lie sprawled on the couch.

"Right, I'm going to go get changed"

You realise you've been napping - comfortably - having your first non-Spector charged stint of subconsciousness in a week. Reed's office is warm and cozy and your eyelids are heavy as you struggle to respond to her words. Her face breaks into a smile when all you can muster up is a nonsensical noise.

"You're ready for sleep"

The sudden adoration in her features jolts you but you force yourself to remain impassive. There's something about the words too - she says them protectively, motherly, almost the way you would talk to a sleepy child. It's a small thing and Reed doesn't understand the significance of it, but it causes a sudden rush of emotion to course through you. Emotion that both slightly abates and yet painfully reminds you of that loneliness once again. Emotion that has the icy Stella Gibson furiously swallowing an inconvenient lump in her throat.

You watch her leave, wondering what she'd say if she knew that she was the reason you'd managed to fall asleep, however lightly, in the first place. Because no one in this god-forsaken country could make you feel quite as - shit, _secure - _as Reed.

You'd told Burns just that morning that you'd almost made the same mistake. It hadn't been to make him feel better because you didn't much care how that self-important, utter_ mess _of a man felt. But you had almost fucked up, royally. You'd almost put Reed in the same basket as Olson, and all the rest. You would have too, if she hadn't had more sense about her.

_You would have fucked her and then gotten her killed. He would have found her and strangled her, maybe even dolled her up. He would have carefully painted that blood-red varnish on to her perfectly manicured fingernails and smiled, knowing that he was screwing with you just that little bit more. He would have… _

…_. For fuck's sake, Stella._

There it is again, that silent admonishment. You get up and go to the cool room as a distraction, pulling out the drawer.

_You're dead. She isn't. She's warm, you're cold. She's okay. She's fucking fine. Now you're talking to the cadavers_

"What on earth are you doing?" She's back, you're in her domain. Black tank. Shirt open. Searching you.

_You have to tell Reed, Stella_.

You have to tell her everything.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wondering where Rose is"

You don't believe her. Well, you do but it's certainly not the reason she's here, looking so woeful. You're both worried about Rose but you also have to face the fact that Stella has been employing carefully honed diversion tactics since she showed up – at precisely 11:57pm – to the morgue.

Much to your chagrin, you can replay the whole night in your head with embarrassing precision.

It had started with Stella helping herself to a seat even after you'd made it clear that you wouldn't have anything of interest until the next day. It had caused you to furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

_Comfortable, Stella?_

She'd been too busy chowing into her nails to notice. Stella Gibson wasn't the kind to seek out another just for company – sex, obviously, and maybe even physical closeness – but not for tea and scones and have-you-read-that-new-Grisham-crime-novel? Human companionship may have been a primal need, but this was Stella Gibson, and she truly believed she was a cut above mankind's primal needs. It was the first sign, albeit almost imperceptible, that something was wrong.

You'd always had a misguided sense of superiority when it came to doing something others could not. The 'high-achiever-syndrome' your mother still called it. It extended far past your job and into your personal life, where Stella tentatively existed. You would have thought the pride over being able to call Stella's bluff when hardly any could would have been more satisfying, but watching her sit there chewing her nails and avoiding your eyes had inspired anything _but _satisfaction in you. Instead you'd felt a strange kind of maternal affection for the stony blonde.

_I want to protect you, Stella. I don't know what from. _

Then the next time you'd looked over she'd been asleep and it had thrown you even further. For the first time you'd had to let go of the silly notion that your sudden desire to swaddle her in a blanket was simply a misplaced motherly instinct. Stella was a grown woman; your senior even, and logical explanations for your heart melting on the spot were few and far between.

_Don't be an idiot, Tanya. You had your chance. You're from Croydon. _

You'd reminded yourself harshly that there was a certain resignation to vulnerability, a certain trust that came with being able to fall asleep in someone's presence. Neither came easily to Stella and so, under no circumstances, was it to be taken advantage of. You had to be content with staring.

And stare you had; noting the contours of her face, the fading remnants of gold eyeshadow and not least the overbite – _Jesus, that damn overbite – _that she'd let you explore with your tongue the night before. Her features had given off the impression that she was devoid of anxiety but her hands had remained tightly clasped at her stomach, as if she couldn't quite let go. The tiny snores and splayed legs had done nothing to quell your mounting adoration, nor had the powdery blue of her sleepy eyes when you'd finally, with aching regret, had to wake her up.

Maybe after that you expected her to take her finely crafted façade of impregnability and bolt, yet it's close to three when you emerge from the showers, and she's there invading your cool room.

When you speak it's with annoyance, yet not for Stella's intrusion or her curiosity, but for your shame – shame because while you've been replaying the night in your head, discreetly brushing your nipples through the material of your black tanktop while you changed, she's wandered off to look at dead people.

She's feeding you the Rose bullshit but you're not listening. Not really anyway. Instead you're eyeing her exhausted frame hanging off the side of the gurney and trying to figure out if it's all worth the argument.

_Give her the benefit of the doubt, Tanya. Maybe this is about Rose. _

You know you can't, because you know it's not – and because sometimes you can't let go of that excruciatingly obnoxious child that had to prove they were always right.

_Either grow some balls or go home, Reed. _

"Stella – " you get one word in. One lousy fucking word and one lousy fucking step in her direction, before she looks up and you freeze. Her expression no longer gives away an air of bone-tired stoicism but something much more heart wrenching.

_No, no, no, no, no. Oh God, Stella. I can't have you cry. I won't cope. _

There's a telltale welling in her eyes, accompanied by a devastating chin quiver. The haphazard constellation of freckles that dot her cheeks and nose refuse steadfastly to blend into a backdrop of rapidly reddening skin. Suddenly nothing else matters, not your skills of perception, or your lack of sleep, or even that you're going to have to send the girls off to school with money in a few hours because there's no way you're going to get round to packing lunch. Nothing matters in that moment except the fact that Stella is standing in front of you; stripped bare, and you've fallen in love.

"What's going on, Stella? What's happened? It's alright, tell me"

She tells you everything.


End file.
